If
by JillianCasey
Summary: If she hadn't said yes, they wouldn't have kissed. Alternate Universe. Picks up immediately after Cops and Robbers.
1. Chapter 1

If freckles were lovely, and day was night,  
>And measles were nice and a lie warn't a lie,<br>Life would be delight,-  
>But things couldn't go right<br>For in such a sad plight  
><em>I <em>wouldn't be _I_.

If earth was heaven and now was hence,  
>And past was present, and false was true,<br>There might be some sense  
>But I'd be in suspense<br>For on such a pretense  
><em>You <em>wouldn't be _you_.

If fear was plucky, and globes were square,  
>And dirt was cleanly and tears were glee<br>Things would seem fair,-  
>Yet they'd all despair,<br>For if here was there  
><em>We<em> wouldn't be _we_.

-E.E. Cummings

* * *

><p>(If she hadn't said yes, they wouldn't have kissed)<p>

Kate thinks things through. It's what she does. She doesn't particularly like the feeling she gets when she doesn't; that horrible sinking in the pit of her stomach when she realizes she's unprepared, or in a situation that she could've prevented if she'd just used her brain.

But when he (Castle, that is—because really, who else would _he_ be anymore?) asks her to come to his loft for dinner—with his family—she doesn't think it through. She knows that if she thinks about it, she'll pull another stunt like she did this summer and shut him out. She's not willing to do that anymore, not after how steadfastly loyal he's been since she told him she wanted her walls down first. Especially not after today, when the bank exploded and her heart imploded because she'd almost lost him right when she'd started to find him.

So, she doesn't think. He says he'll do her one better, he tells her of the feast and how his mother and Alexis would love to see her, and the panic she's so familiar with threatens to go high tide. But then it ebbs away, and she breathes and smiles and nods, even manages to speak. _Okay_.

And it's more than okay. She feels more than at home, the food is more than good, the company is nothing less than magnificent. Rick is still an entertainer, of course, but it's a softer, more subtle type of amusement than what he specializes in at the precinct. He lets Martha and Alexis run the show and is content to fill in the gaps and laugh loudly and often. The three of them are nothing short of a well-oiled machine, playing off of each other and finishing each other's sentences. Kate wonders if she should feel like she's missing out because she doesn't have a family like this, but she doesn't have a chance to feel left out. All she feels is included and delightfully warm.

The warmth remains even after dinner. Maybe it's the wine. Maybe it's the fireplace that Alexis flipped on (because come on, would Castle really want to deal with logs and matches?) before she went to bed. Maybe it's Martha's incredibly sincere thank-you hug before she glides off to bed.

Maybe it's Castle's smile when she sinks onto the couch next to him.

"Mother worships you," he says.

Kate smiles and brushes her hair out of her eyes. "After-glow of the day. She'll be fine by tomorrow, I promise."

"I probably won't be."

Kate feels the moment screech to a halt. She's afraid to look at him, so she just stares at the coffee table with her bottom lip tucked under her teeth. The silence builds to an almost deafening crescendo.

"Sorry," he finally murmurs.

She shakes her head, opens her mouth to say something, but nothing will come out. She presses her lips together. She tries to remember their conversation on the swing set, but it's too far away, hazy because of the warmth of his body that's close (but not close enough) and his words that are still hanging in the air. She tries to force herself to stand up and leave, but instead all she can do is braid his most recent confession with the one that's haunted her for months.

_I love you, Kate._

"I should go," she finally manages to say.

"Do you want to?"

"No."

She can feel him staring at her. She closes her eyes for a few seconds, wishing she could take it back. No. No, she doesn't wish that. She doesn't want that, she wants…what does she want? What does she—

"Kate?"

She stands up so fast her head spins a little. Maybe she had more wine than she thought. "Hell of a day," she says. Her voice sounds cold.

He stands up too. "Yeah."

"I should go."

She sounds like an idiot. He doesn't call her on it. She all but runs to the door, grabbing her coat on the way. When she gets there and pulls on the handle, it won't open all the way. She's in panic mode so she isn't thinking clearly. She tugs harder, but it won't budge. She looks up, realizes that Castle's hand is on the door. She traces her gaze over the back of his hand, his wrist, up his forearm, and then stops when their eyes meet. She swallows.

"Thanks for coming," he whispers. He gives her one of those looks that makes her toes curl. And then he moves his hand back down to his side.

She drops her coat and lunges. She latches both of her hands on either side of his face just to make sure she doesn't miss his lips because of how hard she throws herself at him. He makes a soft _oof_ sound, but before she can feel ridiculous, he wraps his arms around her tightly. She slips her tongue in his mouth. She can't catch her breath. His hands are sliding downward, closer to her ass. Heat erupts in her abdomen.

She shoves him away with a groan of frustration. He's panting and so is she, and when the lustful haze lifts from her vision she sees his chest rising and falling. She puts her hand up to her mouth.

"Kate—"

"Shut up," she says through her hand. He stares at her. She stares at him.

This time they both move. He whips her around, shoves her back against the door, and it slams shut behind her. She wraps her arms around his neck. He hikes one of her legs up around his hips. One of them moans, she's not sure who, but it makes her body jolt in pleasure.

It's enough to bring her back to reality. She shoves him away again, harder than the first time, and he all but growls in frustration. He runs a hand through his hair and gives her a look. She points at him.

"No."

He grins. "Bad dog?"

"Go stand over there," she says, gesturing toward the couch.

He opens his mouth and she already knows what he's going to say, so she fixes him with one of _those_ looks. He immediately closes his mouth and shuffles toward the couch. When he turns around to look at her again, he smirks.

"Is this okay, or do you need the couch between us, too?"

She glares at him. His smirk deepens and he moves around to the other side of the couch, holding her eyes purposefully. She resists the urge to make a joke, because it's not an entirely appropriate one and if she gets them going again, she won't stop it.

He slides his hands into his pockets and stares at her. She leans back against the door and sighs heavily. They stand there for a while, silent and ridiculous because they're on opposite sides of the room and there's still an electric current surging through the air. She tries to remember if she's ever wanted anyone this badly before. Eventually she comes to the conclusion that he's in his own category, and that's probably because he's already inside of her in every way but one.

"I won't apologize for that," he murmurs, finally breaking the silence.

"Of course you won't," she says. She looks at him.

His expression darkens. "Do you want me to?"

She can't help the small smile that tugs on her lips. "I'm the one who jumped you, remember?"

He grins. "Oh, I remember. It is permanently etched into my…Kate? What is it?"

She must not have concealed the look on her face very well. She shakes her head. "Nothing."

"Bullshit."

She sighs. "After-glow is real, Castle." He doesn't answer, so she keeps going. "It's a real thing. I've experienced it before."

"And this is after-glow?"

"I don't know. But do you really..." she trails off with a sigh. She stares at the floor for a while, and he waits. "I almost lost you today." She looks up at him. The seriousness of his expression nearly knocks the wind out of her sails, but she keeps going. "I was afraid I'd lost you for real this time."

"But you didn't."

"But I could have. I was _scared_, Castle. And I don't want…this shouldn't start with fear."

He nods. "You want something more organic."

"I want something more _us_." His smile is blinding. She shifts against the door. "What?"

"Us. I like the sound of that."

A beat passes. She looks at the floor. "Me too."

She hears him moving and looks up in time to see him walking around the couch and toward her. "What are you doing?" she demands.

"What do you think I'm doing?"

"Castle, I can't think when you—"

He stops in front of her, cuts her off with a finger over her lips.

"I don't want you to think."

Their gazes hold. He trails his finger down over the curve of her jaw, lightly down her neck and then lower, past her collarbone, down to where her shirt buttons start. He moves his face slowly toward hers, but just when she thinks he's about to kiss her, he ducks his head and presses his lips to her jaw. She tilts her head back, and he kisses the hollow of her throat gently.

"You think too much," he murmurs against her skin.

"One of us has to," she breathes, punctuating it with a sigh when he darts his tongue out to taste her. He puts his hands on her hips.

"I think about you all the time."

"That's not what I meant."

"It's not what I meant either. Get your mind out of the gutter."

She laughs. She can't help it. He grins against her skin. She drapes her arms over his shoulders. She knows that later she's going to wonder how she became comfortable enough with him to let this happen, to sink into physical contact instead of pushing him away. But right now, she isn't capable. Right now she wants to revel in the fact that he's alive and she's alive and they're alive together and even if she's still got walls, he's got a wrecking ball hiding in his goddamn smile.

And then he's kissing her and she realizes that yes, she was right, she has _never_ wanted anyone this badly before. Even though the heat is building, this kiss isn't like the first two. This one is languid, more of an exploration, though the undercurrent is still decidedly a rumble of _take me against this door now. _For a second she thinks that his only purpose is to kiss her senseless and then laugh while he watches her leave on unsteady legs, but when their hips connect as he pushes her back against the door again, she realizes he's enjoying himself as much as she is.

"Wait," she breathes, pushing against his chest half-heartedly.

"If you're going to say it, mean it," he breathes back, moving his hips against hers.

It takes her a second to convince herself that she means it. Finally, she moans softly, and then pushes him harder. "Wait."

He stops. Their faces are close, and she knows when she opens her eyes, he'll be looking at her, waiting. That's why she doesn't open her eyes. She doesn't do eye contact, not when she's hanging on to her resolve by half a thread.

"I meant it," she finally manages to say. "Not about waiting. Well, I meant that, too. Just about…I mean, I don't…"

"About the fear," he finishes for her.

She nods. She feels him place a soft kiss on her temple. "Okay," he says.

He steps away, and she immediately misses the contact. She opens her eyes. He smiles. He bends over, picks up her coat, and then holds it out to her. She takes it.

"Try to stay away from the bank," she says, softly. "At least until tomorrow when I can keep an eye on you."

"I'll do all my banking online from now on," he answers. "Save myself and save some trees."

She almost doesn't say it. She almost turns away to leave and not look back and think about ways to tell him tomorrow that it was just after-glow and not something she's wanted to do for years.

She's tired of almost, though.

"It'll save me, too," she whispers.

She swears there's an audible spark.

"Kate—"

"Don't," she cuts him off hastily. "Don't ruin it. I'm going."

She's halfway to the elevator when he calls out after her. "I won't pretend this didn't happen."

She smiles to herself. When she turns around, she's straight-faced. She hopes. "Of course you won't."

And then she smirks, and he smiles, and it's so very _them_ that when the doors to the elevator close, she doesn't even feel afraid of what will happen tomorrow.

* * *

><p><em>Thanks for reading. Chapter Two is on its way. Thanks, also, to my betas. Carto, in particular, for her absolutely charming demands for fic. Constantly. <em>


	2. Chapter 2

_Thanks for all the love, guys. You're the best. I'm trying something with the parentheses...please be patient with me. Thanks to Carto, even though she wears a snuggie all the time._

* * *

><p>(If they hadn't kissed, she wouldn't have let him drive her home)<p>

He kisses her again the next day.

They're both tense. Her courage from the night before evaporated as she slept. His seems to have evaporated as well. She's hyper-aware of when he's in her personal space, and he jumps a little bit every time she says his name. He stares at her more than usual, and she has to fight a smile every time his fingers linger against hers when he passes her a new coffee.

It's ridiculous and she hates it. She hates the way Ryan and Esposito are always there, hates the way Lanie arches an eyebrow at her and asks why she's blushing, hates how Gates is rude to him. She hates how he finishes her sentences and smells fantastic and she seriously considers jumping him in the backseat of her Crown Vic.

It's all his fault, obviously, though it starts innocently enough. She's pulling up outside of a victim's workplace, and they're bickering over the radio.

"I'm just saying you should be more open to sharing," he says.

"My car, my music," she shoots back.

"You're so possessive."

"Tell me you don't like it."

"That would be a lie."

She laughs as she shifts the car into park. "At least you're honest."

"Your hair looks nice today." She freezes. Turns her head slowly to look at him, her hand still on the gear shift. When their eyes meet, he shrugs. "Just being honest."

"Castle," she warns.

But it's too late. He leans across the center console, the bottom of his jacket brushing over the cup holders, and kisses her. No tongue. No force. Just a kiss.

She lets her eyes stay closed for half a second after their lips part. When she opens them, he's watching her with a smile. "Just what I expected," he says.

"What did—" she clears her throat. "What did you expect?"

"It's just as fun as I remember."

And then he gets out of the car with the most infuriating look on his face and she can't decide if she wants to punch him or straddle him.

She spends the rest of the afternoon in the same state of limbo, because every time they share eye contact he either winks or grins. She leaves for the day while he's in the bathroom just to punish him, but by the time she's halfway home and there's an uncomfortable ache in places there shouldn't be, she wonders if he's the one who is being punished or if she is.

The ache lingers into the next day. She wakes up feeling it in her muscles, the tenseness in her lower back, the stubborn heat that's sizzling in her veins. It's almost enough for her to ignore that she seems to be coming down with a cold. Her nose is stuffy, her throat is starting to scratch…she could probably use another hour of sleep. Maybe that ache is just another symptom of her cold.

By the time she gets to her desk, she's convinced that she's coming down with whatever's been floating around the precinct. The stress of the bank heist mixed with a lack of sleep that's been building and an unhealthy eating pattern has finally worn down her immune system. She's getting sick, that's all. The tightening in her stomach every time the elevator dings and someone (not him, because she always looks, not that she's waiting for him, she has work to do) steps off is purely a manifestation of her sickness.

And then it actually is him and there's butterflies tangoing in her stomach and it's probably not sickness.

When he stops at her desk, coffee in hand, she ignores him at first. He clears his throat. She looks up at him slowly, an eyebrow arched.

"Hi," he says. He's bouncing up and down, nearly vibrating, and she doesn't want to know why.

"Hi," she echoes.

He grins, offers her one of the cups in his hands. "Coffee."

She takes it. "Thanks."

He plops down into his chair, then leans toward her over her desk. "What're you doing tonight?"

She stares at him over the rim of her cup. He stares back. She takes a slow sip, giving herself time to think over her answer. "Why?" she finally asks.

"Want to come over for dinner?"

"Again?"

"You didn't have fun the first time?"

A memory of being pressed between his body and his front door washes over her. The tango in her stomach intensifies. It's more of a samba now. She swallows. "I did."

"Well, then." He finishes with a shrug.

She sighs. "Look, Castle, I—"

She's cut short by Esposito, and they don't get another moment to themselves until lunch. She's buried in her murder board, trying to ignore her migraine (she's definitely coming down with something), so she jumps when he nudges her. She looks at him, and he offers her a smile.

"Sorry. Didn't mean to scare you."

She shrugs it off. "It's fine." She looks down, sees a box in his hand. "What's in the box?"

His smile widens. "Lunch."

She takes the box from him, cracks it open, and a thrill of gratitude races over her. A sandwich (she doesn't have to look to know it's her favorite) and a container with condensation on the lid. He must read her mind, because he murmurs, "Chicken noodle."

She looks up at him, surprised.

"You look green," he answers the unspoken question.

She snorts. "Thanks, Castle."

He brushes a hand over her forehead so quickly that it doesn't register at first. She jumps belatedly. He doesn't seem to mind the way she cowers away from him. "A little warm," he observes.

"I'm an adult," she says defensively, rising from the edge of the desk she was perched on.

He watches her. "I never said you weren't."

"You didn't have to, it was—you know what? Never mind."

She ignores his smirk as she sinks into her chair. They sit for a while, him watching her as she studiously watches her soup and sandwich, until Ryan appears.

"Beckett, we got the…" he trails off with a sniff. "Is that Café 84?"

Kate stares at him, sandwich halfway to her mouth. Castle snickers. "Quite the sniffer, Detective Ryan."

He ignores Castle and leans toward Kate. "Can I have a bite?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"Because I said so."

"Beckett—"

"She's getting sick," Castle pipes up. Kate turns a glare on him just before Ryan crinkles his nose.

"Throw up sick? I'm supposed to taste cakes with Jenny tonight."

"Back away from the detective, then," Castle says.

Kate stands with a huff and plucks the box off of her desk. "I'm not getting sick. Go practice your crackpot medicine somewhere else, Castle."

Four hours later, when she's throwing up her sandwich in the women's bathroom, she realizes he's not quite a crackpot.

She also realizes that he probably won't kiss her today.


	3. Chapter 3

(If she hadn't let him drive her home, he wouldn't have showed up when she didn't call)

She's miserable. She doesn't even pretend to sleep in her bed. She sleeps on the bathroom floor, her cheek pressed against the cold tile because she has to throw up every half an hour. She doesn't want to be far from the toilet, and the chill of the floor feels good on her feverish skin.

For twelve hours, she vomits up everything in her system. After a while there's no liquid left, so she just dry heaves. She's soaked to the bone from sweat, her hair sticking to her forehead. She doesn't remember any taste except the acrid taste of stomach acid, and every muscle in her body aches from the exertion.

Finally, it stops. She knows she needs to drink something, but she's terrified she'll have to puke again. Instead, she stumbles into her bed, lies carefully on her back, and immediately falls asleep.

When she wakes up, she's dying of thirst. She manages to make it to the kitchen. Her hands shake as she fills a glass of water and then gulps it down. She fills it again, carries it with her back to bed. Then she goes back to sleep.

She follows that pattern for what seems like weeks, but it's really only about a day. Finally, she wakes up to find that she isn't shaking. She lays in bed for a while, staring at the ceiling and waiting for her stomach to lurch. It doesn't. She stretches, winces at the soreness of her muscles, especially her abs. Her right hand hits something cold, and she looks over to see her phone. She picks it up, checks to see if she's missed anything.

17 calls, 3 voicemails, and 6 text messages? Really?

The majority of her missed calls are from Castle, though there's two from Lanie and one from her father. Each of them left a voicemail. All the texts are from Castle. _How are you feeling? Do you want me to call the doctor? Kate, pick up your phone. _It's his voicemail that makes her smile. _This isn't funny, Kate. Call me back within two hours or I'm coming over. _

As soon as she hangs up the phone, there's a knock on her door.

She doesn't move at first. It could be anybody. A neighbor. The landlord.

Castle.

A moment of silence passes, and then there's another knock. Only this time, it's more like a bang. Multiple bangs.

"Beckett!" Castle's voice hollers through the door.

Kate freezes. It's him. He came. She glances down at her body.

God, she looks awful.

She paws at her hair, trying to pull it back with a rubber band that was around her wrist. She winces as her muscles stretch uncomfortably, not used to the movement. Her stomach, however, seems relatively stable. Thank God.

"Kate!" Castle shouts. "Open the door or I'm kicking it down."

_Right_, she thinks. _You'll kick my stainless steel door down._

"Or I'll get your landlord," he continues in a quieter voice, as though he can read her mind. She can't help but smile.

She pulls on a sweatshirt, yanks the hood up over her head because she's positive her ponytail looks disgusting. By the time she gets to her front door, she's shaky but still feeling okay. She goes to work on the deadbolts, which takes some concentration. Finally, she gets them all undone, and swings the door open.

Castle is not amused. Although she's never been on the receiving end of one of these looks, she has no doubt that Alexis has seen more than her fair share. The expression on his face can only be described as pure, affectionate worry, maybe mixed with a healthy dose of exasperation. Kate tries her best to look bored.

"What the hell," she says, but instead of sounding annoyed she just sounds pathetic. Her voice is raspy, and a feeble cough punctuates her greeting.

He narrows his eyes. "Yeah. Exactly. What. The. Hell."

"I'm an adult," she tries, but she's sure that the sudden weakness in her legs that makes her lean heavily against her doorframe has belied her argument.

"Then act like one," he shoots back. She opens her mouth to argue, but he lifts a hand. "Honestly, Kate. It's not even endearing anymore when you reach this level of stubbornness. You're sick. Let me take care of you."

She glowers at him in reply.

He huffs at her, apparently annoyed. "I knew I couldn't trust you. I knew you'd lie."

She has to think about what he means for a moment, and then the memory comes floating back. He'd driven her home from the precinct when she got sick. She'd been relatively stable then, so it wasn't hard to convince him that she just needed a good night's sleep and a day off. She'd promised she would call in the morning.

Clearly she hadn't, but in her defense, she'd been puking out her intestines for an entire ten hours by then.

"What time is it?" she wonders out loud.

"Five PM," he says matter-of-factly. "It has been twenty-four-hours since I dropped you off and I have heard _nothing_. No call, no text, no postcard, no carrier pigeon." She smiles, but he's still talking. "I mean really, when one of New York's finest gives you her word, _sworn on her badge_, you would think you could trust her, but noooo, I guess that is too much to ask, even when—"

"Castle."

"—_someone_ has volunteered to hold her hair while she pukes. You could've been dead! Dead in your own pool of vomit, and how would your father feel? And the boys? Ryan would've been—"

"_Castle_."

"—traumatized, you know the poor guy is barely surviving all the wedding planning and—"

"Castle!"

The effort it takes to shout brings on a fit of coughing and a small moment of vertigo. Castle blinks at her. "You don't have to yell."

She feels the sudden need to sit down, so she turns away from him and stumbles into the living room. She curls up on her couch, waiting for him to follow, but he doesn't. She peeks at the front door to see it still ajar, but he hasn't moved from his spot in the hall.

"What are you doing?" she asks.

"Can I come in?"

"Since when do you ask for an invitation?"

He must realize the truth in her words, because he shrugs and steps inside. She buries her head in her arms and concentrates on her breathing. She doesn't feel sick, per se, certainly not nauseous like she felt only a little while ago. Now she's just unbearably tired, and she thinks that a nap is in order, guest or not.

She's just drifted off when she feels a hand on her back. She lifts her head, squinting, only to see his face mere inches from hers. He's crouched next to her couch. His expression has creased into distinct worry now, and she feels her heart do a somersault.

"I'm fine," she croaks.

"Clearly," he says. He brushes a piece of hair away from her forehead, then presses the back of his hand to her head. "You're still hot."

"Aren't I always?" she shoots back feebly, trying not to nuzzle into his hand. Her inhibitions are lowered by the fever, obviously. Or maybe it just feels good to have some TLC after twenty-four-hours of horror.

He chuckles. "You made a joke in your feverish state. That's a good sign."

"Is it?" she murmurs. She drops her head back onto her arms.

"You should sleep."

"Mm."

"I'm not leaving, you know."

"Uh huh."

He sighs, though it sounds more affectionate than annoyed. She closed her eyes a while ago, but she knows him well enough that she could paint a picture of his expression perfectly. If she had any ounce of artistic ability, that is.

"Kate," he murmurs. And then she feels herself being lifted up. She opens her eyes, going stiff in surprise, worried that he's about to carry her to her bed (she does not need to be carried in any state, ever, thank you very much). What she sees, however, is that he's lifted the front half of her body up high enough that he can slide onto the couch. He lowers her into his lap, her face resting on his thigh so that she's staring at his knee. One of his hands goes to her back, rubbing wide circles, while his other caresses her hair just past her temple.

"Hm," she hums. She meant to warn him to behave, but even a joke about it seems out of place because she's never felt safer. His hands are magic, she thinks as she falls asleep.


	4. Chapter 4

(If he hadn't shown up, there would be no toast)

When she wakes, he's still there.

He's no longer tracing circles on her back, but one of his hands is still steadily caressing her hair. She's still for a moment, enjoying the moment. They're rare, moments like this. The physical contact, certainly, but that's not what she's thinking about. She's thinking about how he thinks she's still asleep, so even if he's watching her, it's probably not inquisitive. It's probably one of his second-nature gazes, which means she's free to take in every aspect of the moment without worrying that he'll see right through her and point how utterly enjoyable she's finding their closeness.

When she inhales, she can smell him. Her head is still resting on his thigh, so her nose is quite close to the fabric of his pants. He smells like cologne, or aftershave maybe. Her mind wanders a little, wonders what kind of shampoo he uses. Whatever it is, it smells like him. Or he smells like it. Whatever.

His fingers in her hair are gentle, soothing. She remembers when she got her tonsils out, and her mother took off work to stay home with her. They would cuddle on the couch, watching_ Temptation Lane_, and her mother would do something similar with her fingers. Maybe it's a parent thing, a skill that you harvest when a tiny human comes into your life.

Whenever he learned it, she's glad he did. And that's when she realizes that her feverish state has made her sentimental and ridiculously vulnerable.

She shoots up into a sitting position so fast he yelps, startled. They stare at each other. She's panting a little. She's not sure why. He holds his hands up as though she's pointing a gun at him.

"It's just me," he whispers.

She doesn't understand why he says that. She squints at him. Oh. He thought she was having a nightmare.

Oh.

She exhales heavily, her shoulders slumping. He leans toward her, moving his hands quickly. He puts the back of one hand on her forehead, then her cheek. He moves his other hand up and down her arm over the sleeve of her sweatshirt. She's achy and tired and she's still reeling from how sweet his _it's just me_ sounded (as though he's not dangerous, which he is, just in a different way, but she doesn't want to think about that) so she doesn't jerk away.

"Well, the fever's gone down," he says, but she thinks he's talking to himself and not her. His gaze dances over her face. "You're not as pale. No green tinge, thank God."

She manages to make a small, weak sound in the back of her throat. She thinks it passes as agreement. It was supposed to.

"How do you _feel_?" he asks softly.

She swallows. "Dirty."

She realizes, as the word is halfway out of her mouth, how many jokes she's opened herself up to. Somehow, miraculously, he doesn't seize the opportunity. He doesn't even crack a smile. Maybe it's not so miraculous, she thinks a few seconds later, because the way he's still moving his hand up and down her arm tells her that he was honestly worried about her, maybe still is, and sex is the farthest thing from his mind.

"Of course," he says. "That's how I always feel after I throw up." He gets to his feet, then offers his hand. "Come on. We'll get you cleaned up."

She arches an eyebrow at him, still not moving from the couch. He shakes his head. "No, Kate. I wouldn't."

The thinnest hint of hurt that edges into his voice floods her with guilt. She stands, moves as close to him as she dares. She knows she doesn't look her best (probably doesn't even look human) and she doesn't smell that great either, but she interlaces her fingers with his anyway. Just for a second. Just long enough to apologize.

"I know."

She moves toward her bathroom, still holding onto his hand, wanting him to understand that she wants him there with her. Trusts him to be there. When they get to the bathroom doorway she stops. Surprisingly, she must have managed to get all her vomit where it was supposed to go; there isn't any on the floor, or the rim of the toilet. Thank God, because she doesn't want to see it. She doesn't have the stomach.

He starts the water, then ushers her to her bedroom to pick out some clean clothes. She chooses a pair of shorts and a faded gray NYPD t-shirt, wonders why she doesn't feel shy about him standing next to her while she goes through her drawers. He leads her back to the bathroom with his hand on the small of her back. Once he places a washcloth next to the tub, he turns to look at her, all business.

"I think a bath would be better. So you're not standing in hot water. It might make you—"

"Dizzy," she finishes. She nods. "Yeah."

"Can you wash your hair? In the tub?" He glances at the top of her head. "I mean, it's up to you, but I don't want you to—"

"I'll be fine," she cuts him off. "Just get me a cup, will you? There's a big plastic one in the cupboard next to the sink."

She doesn't mention that it's the same one she had to use after her gunshot because she couldn't stand in the shower then, either. He returns quickly, cup in hand. She takes it from him.

"Thanks."

"I'm going to sit outside the door," he says. "In case you need me."

She swallows a retort that she doesn't need to be babied, she's not dying, and that in fact, he should probably go. She tells herself it's because he's been so kind and she doesn't want to hurt his feelings. She knows it's because she doesn't want him to leave.

"Okay," she says instead.

She takes her time. At first she wants to hurry, because she feels bad that he's waiting and she knows he won't move away from that doorway until she's out. But then the warm water registers, feels so _good_, and she sinks into it fully. Lets it wash way the grime of sickness. She scrubs her body twice, once before she washes her hair and once after. She brushes her teeth twice, too.

Castle calls out to her every once in a while, just to make sure she's okay. He's calling her name again when she opens the door, wearing the clothes she brought from her bedroom, toweling off her wet hair. He gets to his feet.

"Oh. You're done."

"Yeah."

His nose twitches, just barely, but she sees it. "What?" she asks.

"You smell good," he answers.

She doesn't know what to say, so she doesn't say anything. Instead, she lets the silence build to a deafening crescendo. She slideshows through the past few days. Almost losing him. Kissing him.

"Toast," he croaks.

She looks up from his lips. "What?"

"You need to eat. Toast."

He walks away abruptly. She stares after him. When he disappears from view, she sniffs the ends of her hair. They smell like shampoo.

She follows him into the kitchen.


	5. Chapter 5

(If there was no toast, there would be no sex)

He's bent over, peering into her fridge, when she enters the kitchen. She checks out his ass, catches herself. A twinge somewhere in her belly makes her sigh at herself. Wasn't she vomiting out her intestines about twelve hours ago? And now she wants, what, to jump her best friend?

That last thought brings her screeching to a halt. Literally. She freezes, halfway into the kitchen, her heart pounding. He's her best friend, isn't he? She has Lanie, yes, and she has other friends, really she does, but Castle…he's her best friend. If she got a flat tire, she'd call him. Well, okay, she can change a tire on her own and she knows how to call for a tow truck and hail a cab, it's Manhattan for God's sake, it's not like she needs him to…

She swallows the realization, but it pushes its way back up. She would call him anyway. Maybe not to change her tire, maybe not even for a ride, but she would call him.

"Why is there no bread?" he murmurs. It breaks her out of her trance. She clears her throat. He snaps up, surprised, and whirls around.

She points at the counter. "It's in the bread box."

He glances in the direction she's pointing then looks at her. "That fridge is a toxic landfill."

"You're a drama queen."

He doesn't answer, just makes his way toward the bread box. He pulls a loaf of bread out, scans her counter for a toaster, and finds it next to her coffee maker.

"You eat a lot of toast?" he asks as he plops two slices of bread in.

"Why would you ask that?'

He pats her coffee maker. "This is your life source. Anything you keep next to it must be pretty important."

She shrugs. "Pop Tarts, mostly."

He looks at her, horrified. "Are you serious?"

"What's wrong with Pop Tarts?"

"You eat Hot Pockets too, don't you?"

She crosses her arms defensively. "So what if I do?"

He throws his arms up. "Not healthy for someone who exerts as much energy as you do!"

"You're making it a habit to forget I'm an adult."

"I'm just saying I would prefer if you ate healthier."

"Because you're a control freak?"

"Because I'd like you to stay around for a while, thank you very much."

That stops them both short. She stares at him, swallows. He avoids her eyes. She gets the feeling he hadn't meant to say it that way. It's the same reason he walked away from her so abruptly back in the bathroom; he's trying to be on his best behavior because she's sick.

The toast pops out of the toaster. "Toast," he mutters stupidly. She wants to laugh at him, but her heart is pounding too hard.

He turns, reaches for the toast, and yelps loudly. He whips his hand back toward his chest, shaking it frantically. "Ow, ow, mother trucker, ow!"

"Did you…?"

"It's hot," he says, sticking his first three fingers in his mouth.

She sighs and moves toward him. "Let me see," she says, holding out her hand.

He doesn't pull his fingers out of his mouth. He meets her gaze and shakes his head. "Nuh uh," he says around his fingers.

"Now who's the child?" she taunts, still holding her hand out. He crinkles his nose, then pulls his fingers out of his mouth with a pop. He holds them out to her, grins. She arches an eyebrow.

"You asked," he says.

She rolls her eyes, but examines his fingers anyway. His fingertips are red, but not horribly so. He's fine. "You're okay," she says, squinting one last time to make sure. "Come here."

She tugs him by his wrist toward the sink, turns the tap on to cold. She puts his fingers underneath, and he hisses. She runs her thumb over the pads of his fingers gently. The water is freezing, a startling contrast to the heat of her bath that's still lingering on her skin. Finally, satisfied that he's going to be fine, she shuts the water off, reaches for a towel. She wraps his fingers in it loosely, then looks up at him.

"There. All…" The words die on her lips. It's the way he's looking at her. His gaze flitting over her face, lingering on her lips a little too long.

The silence crescendos again. She bites her lip. Her hand is still on the towel that's holding his wounded fingers.

"Thanks," he whispers. It's the same whisper from their stare down at his front door after the bank heist. The same heat is still coursing through her, the same nearly audible spark hanging in the air, but she doesn't lunge at him. Instead, she watches him raise his hand slowly, run it through her still damp hair that's starting to dry in waves around her face. He moves to her cheek next, the backs of his fingers trailing over her skin, and then she can't take it anymore.

She leans forward and presses her lips to his. Nothing frantic, no tongue, just a simple kiss. It hits her suddenly and she yanks away, puts her hand over her mouth.

"God, Castle, I'm sorry."

He frowns at her. "What? No. We don't…what?"

She moves her hand. "You're going to get sick now."

He smiles, moves closer. "I got my flu shot. I told you that you should've gotten one too."

He cuts off any response she wants to make by kissing her again, this time more insistently. She reaches up, grabs fistfuls of his shirt to steady herself. She doesn't feel sick, or tired, or anything except really good, flushed, maybe, but that's probably a side effect of the heat pooling low in her abdomen.

"Wait," he says, pushing her away.

It's her turn to frown. "What?"

"You're sick," he says, as though the answer is obvious. "You're too tired for any kind of—"

"Shut up," she orders just before she crashes her lips against his. He makes an attempt to argue, but she latches her teeth onto his earlobe and nibbles.

"I said shut up," she purrs in his ear.

He groans a little. It lights a fire in her, somewhere deep that hasn't been ignited in a very, very long time, and the next few moments are a blur. She knows there's kissing, and groping, and heat, definitely, lots of heat and soft sounds of pleasure and clothes disappearing at a rapid rate. Somehow they're suddenly in her bed, they're not wearing a stitch of clothing, she's panting, he's on top of her, but he's stopped just before the best part. She glares up at him, impatient, but the second she sees the look on his face her impatience evaporates.

"You sure?" he breathes.

She nods, wraps her legs around him. "I'm sure."

"And you won't…this isn't after-glow?"

She puts her hands on either side of his face. Maybe she's still feverish so it's making her say things. First real vomit, now word vomit. Maybe it's just him, the way he makes her feel. Whatever it is, she says it.

"I won't regret you, Castle. I promise."

She doesn't regret him all night, doesn't regret him in bed all day the next day, and certainly doesn't regret him against her front door when he finally tries to leave twenty-four hours after he came.

She regrets it a little when he starts puking three days later.

* * *

><p><em>Thanks to Carto for the beta, even though she lectured me on how unhealthy Hot Pockets are for about eight hours. Obviously, I ate a Hot Pocket afterward.<em>


	6. Chapter 6

(If there was no sex, there would be no secrets revealed)

They've been doing whatever it is they're doing for a while now. For a few weeks, they were hiding it from everyone. Alexis caught them making out in his office during week five. She laughed, but the rosy tinge in her cheeks said she was a little embarrassed, too. Maybe because her dad's hands were on Kate's ass. Rick assured her the next day that he and Alexis had talked, and his daughter was thrilled. Martha too, apparently.

Everyone else finds out slowly but steadily. Lanie first, because she notices that Kate has started to call him Rick instead of Castle. Lanie's interrogation makes Kate think she chose the wrong career; she'd have been one hell of a cop.

Esposito and Ryan are a little slow on the uptake. Surprisingly, it's Ryan who figures it out first. He walks in on them arguing in the break room during week nine. It's a hushed argument, bickering really, but since their dead-end case is getting to her, she shoots a retort at him with a little too much acid. She sees it, a brief flash of hurt over his face, and she responds immediately. She puts her hand on his forearm, squeezes, lowers her voice to a whisper she only uses when they're alone. _I'm sorry._ Ryan clears his throat. She jumps, Rick stares open-mouthed, Ryan shifts awkwardly from foot to foot.

"Didn't mean to interrupt," he says sincerely.

"Don't be ridiculous," Kate hears herself say. But it's already too late.

Later, she wonders if it was the familiarity of her touching Rick's arm or her apology (she never apologizes. Ever.) that made Ryan suspicious. Whatever it is, the next week is composed of Ryan and Esposito watching, sneaking, making innuendos, and setting traps. It's fun for a few days, but then it's not anymore. She and the boys are going to meet up with Rick at the Old Haunt after solving the case, and they tease her the whole way. When they get there, she leans over the bar and kisses Rick hello. She doesn't know who's more surprised, Rick or the boys, but she doesn't care. She just smirks and sips her drink.

They don't define the relationship. She thinks he wants to but is afraid to scare her. She doesn't know what she wants. He'll take whatever she chooses to give, she knows that, and she makes the conscious choice every day, sometimes multiple times a day, to give him what he wants even if it scares her. She's startled to find that it's what she wants, too.

He wants to take her out for Valentine's Day. She says no. She knows there'll be press. They fight about it. They make up spectacularly. In February, Ryan and Jenny get married. She waits for Rick to ask her if they can go together (you know, officially), but he doesn't. She waits and waits. She gets cranky when he doesn't, and he doesn't understand why she's upset. She doesn't either. They fight again. Make up again. She's naked and sweating, draped over his chest, when she asks. _Let's go to the wedding together._ She can hear him smiling, but all he says is _okay_.

In April, they get caught in a gun fight. Esposito takes one to the chest just above his vest. His surgery lasts too long. Ryan doesn't stop pacing. Lanie cries. A huge part of Kate is worried for Espo, but there's also this scared little part of her that hates being in this hospital, because the last time she was here, she was dead until Josh brought her back to life. She hopes Josh, or someone like him, is working on Esposito. Finally, the doctor arrives. Esposito will be fine. Kate hasn't said a word, hasn't done anything since she got to the hospital. When they get the news, all she does is nod gratefully. She makes sure Lanie is permitted to see Esposito, waits for Jenny to arrive to soothe Ryan into sitting, and then she slips away. She walks for a while, finds her way to the ambulance bay. It's pouring. She sniffs. Her throat is tight. Rick calls her name, his voice low in her ear. He must've followed her. She turns to look at him. Then she collapses into his arms.

On the first of May, Rick nervously asks her if she'll go to the Hamptons with him for Memorial Day. She flashes back to the last time he asked, to Demming and a horrible summer apart. She says yes.

Then everything goes to hell.

X-X-X-X-X

She realizes one day that she's happy, happier than she has been in years. Alexis is visiting colleges for the weekend; Martha is out. It's Saturday afternoon, and she and Rick have been lying in bed all day. She's on call, but miraculously, a body hasn't dropped. She's sure that it'll happen eventually, but for the time being, she's beneath the sheets and curled into Rick's side, laughing. She's been laughing (and panting) all afternoon.

"No, I mean it," he says, and then pauses to take a deep breath into her hair. "You should've seen your face."

"It wasn't _that_ bad."

"It was. It so was."

She laughs in response. A silence falls over them. In the beginning of their relationship, silences were tense. Sometimes they were filled with things she knew he wanted to say but didn't, or vice versa. Sometimes she was having a panic attack over his rapidly changing role in her life, and sometimes he was trying to swallow the frustration of her walls coming down so slowly. Now, this time, it's the contentment of being together and not having to say anything. Her clothes in his closet and the way he smiled when she asked him to meet her father are communication enough.

"I'm hungry," she murmurs into his chest after a while.

He trails his fingertips over her back. "World Famous Castle Waffles?"

She smiles. "No."

"Grilled Cheese."

She lifts her head. "Let's go out."

"Okay," he says. "But give me a second, I have to get my fill of you since I can't touch you in public."

He starts to move over her, leaning forward for a kiss, but she shoves against his chest. He frowns. "What?"

"Save it for the restaurant." He stares at her. Blinks. She smirks. "If I'd known that was all it takes to get you to stop talking, I would've done this a long time ago."

"Really?" he finally says.

"Really what? Really I would've done it a long time ago, or really about kissing me in public?"

He blinks again. "Second one."

"Yes. Really. But if I'm going to be seen kissing you in public, you need to take a shower."

She shoves at him again gently, and he sits back on the bed, apparently still in shock. She rises to her elbows, studies him. "Rick?" she says at last.

He leaps off the bed, grinning. "Shower with me."

"Why?"

"I need to practice."

"We're not doing _that_ in public."

"No. Well, not yet." He flashes a wicked grin. "I mean kissing you."

"You've had plenty of practice."

"No such thing."

"You know, if we spend the whole shower kissing, we won't get clean."

He shrugs. "I can live with that. Please?"

"Let me start the coffee first, and then—"

Her answer is enough for him, and he bounds toward his bathroom. "I'll make sure the water is hot!" he calls over his shoulder.

She laughs. It's one of her favorite things about him; the way he gets so over-the-top excited. She doesn't operate like that. She takes things evenly, doesn't laugh unless it's funny and doesn't cry unless it's an actual, horrific tragedy. She's the straight line to his high-crested waves, and somehow they end up finding a middle ground.

She gets out of bed as the shower starts. She pads out of the bedroom, through his office, and into the kitchen. The coffee is started in no time, and she smiles, pleased that it will be ready when she's done. She heads back to his office, thinking about kissing him in public and whether or not it will feel different.

Something catches her attention out of the corner of her eye, and she turns her head. Rick's giant smart board has a small blinking alert in the bottom left corner, an unclosed tab that's orange. She squints at the tab on the bottom of the screen. _Heat of the Night_, it reads. It must be the next Nikki Heat. He hasn't said much about it, but when she came home from work last night, he'd been in a hurry to shut off whatever he was working on. She knows he's been nervous about how to follow up _Heat Rises_. Kate glances at the bedroom door. She can still hear the shower. Maybe she'll glance over the manuscript, put his mind at ease about how it's going. He's always handing her pages to read anyway, and she likes being able to help him with his job like he helps her.

She clicks the tab. A look-alike murder board springs onto the screen with a blinking alert in the middle. _Do you want to save the changes to Heat of the Night? _She taps cancel, and the murder board comes into full view. She scans it, wondering who the victim is that Nikki's trying to help. But there is no victim.

There's only her.

Her face is on the screen, a picture she's never seen before. The names aren't fictional; they're very, very real. Raglan. Montgomery. McCallister. Lockwood.

Johanna Beckett.

Kate feels the comfort drain out of her. She swallows, her throat suddenly tight as she keeps reading. She can't stop. That's when she notices the facts she doesn't know. The information she's never known, information that could've been followed up as a new lead. She gets closer to the screen, stunned.

"Kaaaate," Rick calls from the bathroom. His voice is getting closer. "Come on, we need to start prac—" he stops abruptly.

She turns to look at him. Their eyes meet across the room.

"What the hell is this?" she whispers.

* * *

><p><em>You should all go read Cartographical's <em>The Aim of Walking _now__. It is just so GOOD. _


	7. Chapter 7

_Thanks to Carto for_ _reading 8 million versions of this. _

* * *

><p>(If there were no secrets revealed, she wouldn't feel like this)<p>

His silence is painful. It spreads over her skin, blisters, and she can't take it anymore. "Castle," she snaps.

He pushes his hand through his hair, looks at the floor as he shakes his head. "You weren't supposed to see that yet."

"Well, I did. Explain. _Now_."

He finally looks up at her. "I've been working on your mother's case."

"Without me?" she asks, though it doesn't sound anything like a question. More like an accusation.

"Without you," he echoes.

"For how long?"

He stares at her. She raises her eyebrows, furiously impatient. He swallows. "Since you got shot."

A wave of nausea sweeps over her. "You've been working on my mom's case for a _year_ and you never said anything?"

"I was waiting for the right time—"

"The right time would've been when you started."

"I was trying to protect you—"

"Protect me from _what_? It sounds like you should've been protecting me from yourself."

He shakes his head. "That's not fair."

"You know what's not fair?" she shoots back, nearly shouting. She shoves her index finger toward the smart board. "This. And this. All this information that I've never seen before. Information that could've been followed up as new leads—"

"I've been following them," he interrupts, pointing to himself. "They're dead ends."

"You're not a cop!" she snarls. "You don't have access to what I do."

"I've done okay," he answers defensively. "And I've saved you a lot of heartbreak." He must see the incredulity on her face, because when she opens her mouth to argue, he holds up a hand to try to stop her. "I mean it. All of my dead ends—"

"They're not yours!"

This time she does shout. He falls silent immediately. She doesn't continue right away. Her blood is pounding in her ears. Her hands are shaking. She feels a little bit like throwing up, or punching something. Someone, maybe. "You did the work," she starts again, quieter this time. "But they're not yours. They're mine. And you took them from me."

She sees the regret on his face, etched into the blue of his eyes, but it's not enough for her. This isn't he-made-an-inappropriate-joke or she's-being-guarded or they're-both-stressed-from-a-hard-case. This isn't a lovers' spat. This is real, and it _hurts_. She clenches her jaw, forces herself to keep going.

"Where'd you get it?" she demands, pointing at one of the pieces of information she didn't know.

"I got a call."

"From who?"

"I don't know. A man. Mr. Smith. He said you were safe as long as you weren't actively pursuing the case."

Kate bites her lip but says nothing.

He takes a step toward her. "I was trying to protect you."

"You don't get to make decisions for me."

"I know you. If I'd told you, you would've gone head first down the rabbit hole."

"It's _my_ rabbit hole."

"And it's _my_ responsibility to make sure you're not destroying yourself—"

"No," she cuts him off. "I'm not your responsibility. You don't get to make decisions like this for me. Christ, Castle, you don't tell someone you love them and then take away their right to—"

"Whoa, whoa," he hollers over her. "Hold on a minute."

She stops abruptly, confused, and then it hits her. Oh _shit_. She shakes her head. "Rick—"

"You said you didn't remember," he interrupts. "You _lied_."

"I didn't lie—"

"You did! I _knew_ it. All this time you've watched me flail around, trying to give you the space you needed, and you _knew_. You knew, and I was, what, this pathetic, lovestruck idiot who followed you around, hoping you'd figure it out?"

"I wasn't ready for you. I would've broken your heart."

"And that's such a change from what you're doing now," he spits at her.

She swallows the hurt. "This isn't the same as what you did."

"How?" he demands. "How is this not the same? We both lied to protect each other."

"I didn't take anything from you. I couldn't give you what you wanted, but I didn't take anything." She points at the smart board. "This is who I am. This _made_ me. And you took it from me. Yours wasn't a lie. It was betrayal."

The last word hangs in the air, suffocating and heavy. Kate's heart continues to pound in her ears. Rick stares at her, clearly hurt, but she's too consumed by the truth in her words.

That's when she hears it. A shrill ring from the bedroom. Her phone. She glances at Rick.

"Don't answer it," he whispers.

She pushes past him. "I don't have that luxury."

When she gets to her phone, she sees that it's Esposito. "Beckett," she answers. She half listens while he tells where the body dropped. "I'll be there in twenty," she says. She hangs up. She pulls on a pair of pants hanging in Castle's closet, then a blouse. She zips her boots up, holsters her gun and clips her badge on her belt. When she gets back to the office, he's waiting.

"We have a case?" he asks.

"I have a case," she corrects, heading straight for the door.

"Kate," he calls after her.

She turns on him, nods at the smart board. "You already have a case to finish."

She leaves before he answers.

X-X-X-X-X

Kate thinks the universe has it out for her today.

When she gets to the scene, it's a bloody mess. The vic is a 49-year-old white woman, dressed like a soccer mom and wearing a huge ring on her fourth finger. Kate's listening to Lanie's explanation of the two GSWs in the woman's chest when she hears the scream.

She and the boys turn, moving their hands toward their guns. It's a young girl, maybe around Alexis's age. She's trying to get under the yellow tape, but a pair of uniforms are holding her back. Tears are streaming down her face.

"Mom!" she shouts.

The coffee cup in Kate's hand lands on the concrete with a sickening splat.

"Beckett," Esposito says. Kate doesn't turn, just stares at the girl, memories flashing through her mind like a lightning storm, burning her skin.

"Kate," Lanie calls. Kate feels a hand on her back. She turns, sees Lanie standing next to her, looking worried. Kate looks past her, sees the boys hastily dropping an extra sheet over the spilled coffee so it doesn't seep into the crime scene.

"Sorry," Kate murmurs. "Sorry, I...here, I'll do it," she snaps, waving the boys out of the way. She knows they're all sharing a look behind her back, but she ignores them. She carefully arranges the sheet, mopping up the mess. When she stands, dripping sheet in her hand, she levels an all-business look at the three of them.

"Call me when you get more," she says to Lanie. "Start the canvas, guys. I want to know why she was here, how long she was here, everything." She glances at the crying teenager. "I'll talk to the daughter."

"Beckett—" Ryan starts.

"Do your job," she cuts him off. She throws the sheet in a nearby trashcan and then moves toward the girl.

X-X-X-X-X

When she gets back to the precinct, Rick is there. He's sitting in his chair, shaking his leg nervously. There's a cup of coffee sitting by her keyboard. She pauses, the slightest hitch in her step, and then keeps going.

She breezes up to her desk, stubbornly avoiding eye contact. He gets to his feet. "Hi."

"Hey."

He rocks nervously from foot to foot. "I brought you coffee."

"I see." A moment passes. "Thanks," she adds.

"Always," he murmurs.

It's like salt on a fresh wound. She bites her lip, fighting the emotion. She leaves the coffee on her desk and heads for the murder board. He waits until she's filled everything in before he joins her.

"Kate."

"I've got work to do, Castle."

He nods. "I know that. But you're waiting for the boys to get back from the canvas, I bet. Lanie needs to do the autopsy. You've got ten minutes to spare." She finally looks at him. Their gazes hold. "Gates isn't here," he continues. "The conference room is open."

She stares at him. "We can do this later."

"We both know we can't. Your walls are growing as we speak."

"Don't psychoanalyze me."

"Don't shut me out without a chance."

He stares her down, unmoving. Finally, she gestures toward the conference room.

He shuts the door quietly behind them. She stands on the other side of the room, her back to him. Silence reigns for a while. Finally, she turns to face him. For one silent, beautiful second, she thinks about what could be. About him and her, about the possibility that they'd been basking in all afternoon before the bomb dropped. She could be out to dinner with him right now, letting him kiss her in public, letting herself be happy. Instead here she is, trying to fix a broken relationship that started knee-deep in deceit on both their ends.

"Why are you doing this?" she whispers.

He doesn't answer right away. Finally, lacking all the eloquence of a world-famous novelist, he whispers back, "Because I want to be with you."

She shakes her head. "That's not always enough," she answers. "Maybe it's not worth it."

"You're worth it."

"That's not what I mean." She gestures between herself and him. "This might not be worth it."

"You don't know that."

"Yes I do. What would happen? We define the relationship, try to get past the fact that we've been lying to each other for a year now? Maybe we do, and then it's resolved, but something else comes up and you decide to protect me again. Or maybe I'm not as fixed as I think I am, and I start shutting you out. Either way we'll fight again, we always do, and it'll be messy, and we'll end up hating each other. Why go there? Why put ourselves through that?"

"You can't start at the end, Kate. You start at the beginning."

"Whether you read the first page or the last page first, the book always ends the same."

Rick shakes his head. "You deserve better than that."

She laughs humorlessly. "Better than what?"

"Haven't you been happy?" he asks. "With me? Don't you think you deserve that?"

She looks away. The moment stretches on, her silence answer enough. She has been happy. Very happy. But that's what's made his betrayal hurt so badly, and that's what's made her second guess her culpability in this mess, too. If they could both keep secrets like that for so long, what hope do they have in ever making it?

"I'm sorry I hurt you," she finally says.

He doesn't answer until she looks at him again. "I'm sorry, too." They stare at each other. He offers her a small smile. "See how easy that is?"

She shakes her head. "It's not that simple."

"It could be. If you let it."

She watches him. He's trying so hard to restrain himself, not to blurt it out. She can feel it welling up inside of her, too. She couldn't fight it if she tried. So she doesn't bother.

"I love you too," she whispers.

His expression changes, morphs from shock to joy. He steps toward her. "Kate—"

"Don't," she says, taking a step away. He freezes. She shakes her head. "It's not enough. I…we're broken." He's going to say something, she can tell, so she rushes to finish. "I don't see how we can keep doing this. I mean, isn't this the definition of insanity? Doing the same thing over and over again and hoping for a new result?"

"Walking away makes it the same result," he argues. "But we're different now, we've been different since the day the bank blew up. If you stay, if we both stay…" he trails off.

"If we both stay, what?" she presses. "How can we trust each other when we've both been lying all this time? Every moment has been rooted in a lie, Rick. None of this was real."

He doesn't answer.

She takes a deep breath. "Every time I let you in, you clobber me. And I clobber you too, I _know_ that. I know I hurt you. Don't you see it? That's all we do, we clobber each other, and I can't take it anymore. I'm tired of being clobbered."

He stares steadfastly at his shoes.

"You should be too," she adds. "I'm not good for you."

He finally looks at her. "You're wrong."

She can't look at him anymore. She's chewing on her bottom lip so hard she's afraid it might bleed.

"I'll go," he whispers.

_Stop him,_ her heart demands. _Don't be an idiot._

But she can't. She's thinking about his smart board, about how many times she's fallen apart in front of him because she couldn't solve the case that's been haunting her for more than a decade, and all this time he's been hiding possible solutions from her. She's thinking about lying in his arms in the dark, whispering secrets against his skin, trusting him with everything she had, and then watching it shatter into jagged pieces on his office floor. It's Royce all over again, and Montgomery, and the moments are all blurred together and she can't find the words. Maybe there aren't any.

He leaves. She doesn't stop him.


	8. Chapter 8

_The beauty of third person limited is that you're limited to one point of view. Remember that at the end of this chapter, okay? One more after this._

* * *

><p>(If she didn't feel like this, it wouldn't be real)<p>

He leaves a message on her cell phone in June. She listens to it over and over again, just to hear the sound of his voice. It's pathetic. She does it anyway.

"Kate. Hey. It's me. I hope you're doing okay. I saw in the paper that you busted an assistant DA the other day. There was a picture." He pauses then, and if she closes her eyes she can imagine the look on his face while he tries to decide if he should say what he says next. "You looked good." He clears his throat. "Anyway, Paula's got me going on a book tour for the whole summer. I'm leaving in about a week. I thought maybe we could catch up before I go. Just, uh…just call me back. Please? Okay. Bye."

She wants to call him back, but she doesn't. She's scared that he'll ask her to go with him, and she won't be able to tell him no, and then in a hotel room somewhere in the Midwest they'll realize that they don't work and she'll lose him all over again.

She doesn't want to open the floodgates. She's barely holding it together as it is. It's not like she's still mad at him; she stopped being mad at him the moment his front door slammed behind her. That's the scary part about how much she loves him. He dug around in her mother's case _again_, but her fury and her sense of betrayal is so dwarfed by the knowledge that he was only trying to protect her that she can't be mad. The only thing she can muster up any anger over is the fact that he could've gotten himself killed trying to protect her, and _she's_ the one that's supposed to protect _him_.

If he were here, he'd argue that it's a two-way street. It isn't just her protecting him, whether she's a cop or not. He would say that they're supposed to protect each other, and that's what they were doing. But that argument seems hollow to her. That's why she doesn't call him back. Because good intentions or not, the fact that they hadn't been able to communicate with each other is a bad sign. It's not like they were just friends, or co-workers. They shared a bed every night for months, were able to say a million things in the dark while in each other's arms, but they couldn't be brave enough to say the two things that actually mattered.

That's not love, she decides. Not the kind of love _they're_ supposed to have, anyway. She wanted more for them. Still does. Maybe they'll find it, eventually, but right now, she can't bear to look at him. It hurts too much.

X-X-X-X-X

In August, she hits her breaking point. Advertisements for his newest book are all over the place. She finds one of his shirts buried in the back of her closet. It still smells like him.

She calls him. He doesn't answer. She leaves a message.

"Hi. It's me. Kate. I um…I know it's been a while. I know you called….well, a while ago. I hope your book tour's been going okay. I uh, I won't take a lot of your time because I'm sure you're busy. I was just thinking…I know you said that you'll be back in New York soon. I thought maybe we could get coffee. Catch up or something. I've had a rough couple of weeks with cases. There was this kid last week, he got stabbed about a dozen times with a…it doesn't matter. Sorry. Anyway, just call me back. If you want. If not, that's fine. Bye."

X-X-X-X-X

A week after she caved in, Kate feels an intense pressure sitting just between her eyes. She pinches the bridge of her nose as she walks into the coffee shop down the street from the precinct. It's her third cup of the morning, but she knows her hands aren't shaking from caffeine overload. She can't get Castle out of her goddamn head. She's spent the summer trying every trick in the book to get over him, and she's failed spectacularly.

Does she think about him as much as she did those first few weeks after he left? No. But does she still think about him? Absolutely. And at the most goddamn inconvenient times, too. At the precinct, whenever she has a cup of coffee as she tries to solve a case, he flits across her mind. She never uses the espresso machine. Come to think of it, she never gets her own coffee. Ryan and Esposito always have her covered, covered so well that the second she even thinks about coffee, they're there with a fresh cup for her.

Sometimes, while she's making an arrest, she thinks of him. There's no one to protect but herself, and though she feels like that should be a relief, it isn't. Interrogations and interviews are different without him at her side, and though she closes just as many cases, it still feels off.

The idea of her world being off-kilter for so long because of a man is beyond frustrating and into the realm of terrifying. She can still remember what it was like to be with him, and she hates that. _Hates_ it. Because that means she still loves him, and she doesn't want to love him. They're not good for each other. She keeps telling herself that they're like fire and gasoline, but it never rings true.

She orders her vanilla latte and ignores the appreciative look from the guy behind the counter. She's still thinking about Rick when she opens the door of the coffee house and runs headlong into a man.

"Oh, I'm sorry, I wasn't…Kate?"

Kate, who's busy juggling her coffee cup while trying to keep it away from her blouse, looks up at the sound of her name and immediately freezes.

Coming face to face with Rick after the summer she's had is one thing, but coming face to face with him without warning is something entirely different. She feels like she's just plummeted down the highest hill of the world's tallest roller coaster, and it steals the breath right out of her.

"Rick," she sputters after a second in which they're both staring at each other with wide eyes. "What are you doing here?"

He holds up his coffee. "Getting coffee. What are you doing here?"

She nods at her own cup. "Getting coffee."

He doesn't say anything else and neither does she, but neither of them turn away either. For a long moment they just stare at each other, and then Kate gets unnerved and looks away.

"So, how are things?" Rick asks the second she breaks eye contact.

"Great," she says quickly. "You?"

"Great."

She nods because she doesn't know what else to do. After a full second of silence, Kate finally looks at him. She's a bit taken aback to see how carefully he's watching her, but that's nothing compared to what he says next, a tinge of wonder in his voice.

"Your hair is shorter."

Kate touches her hair automatically. "Oh. Yeah. It's been hot."

"Right. Of course." She thinks she sees him flush, maybe from embarrassment. She bites her lip. "It looks nice," he adds.

"Thanks."

He's staring again, and she's fighting her own blush now. She doesn't know why she's still standing here having the most awkward moment of her life with the last person she should see when she's feeling this vulnerable. She wills her legs to move, but they won't.

"How's everyone at the precinct?"

"Good. Alexis and your mother?"

"Good. Alexis leaves for Stanford soon."

"Oh, that's great. Far, though."

"Really far." He laughs halfheartedly, and for some reason it makes Kate want to tell him she loves him. "I'm secretly hoping she'll last a week and then transfer to NYU or Columbia," he confides.

"So she's closer to home?"

"Yes. But I'm the cool dad, so…" He shrugs and then the silence envelops them again. He's still staring at her like she's the eighth wonder of the world, and then suddenly it hits her. What's he doing here? Not just here, at the coffee house down the street from the precinct, but in New York.

Why didn't he call her to tell her he was back?

"When did you get back in town?" she blurts out before she can stop herself.

"Sunday," he answers.

Sunday? He's been in the city almost an entire _week_ and he didn't call her?

A soft "Oh," escapes her, and she looks down at her shoes. She kicks herself instantly, because she's almost positive that her disappointment is written all over her face. Suddenly he's taking a step toward her and offering an explanation.

"I was going to call after this weekend. I wanted to spend some time with Alexis, and I wasn't sure if you…"

She looks at him questioningly. He doesn't finish.

"It's okay," she answers after a long pause. "You don't have much time left with her." She shrugs. "Besides, it's not like I have any room to talk, since I took so long to return your call."

"I'm sure you had your reasons."

Suddenly it's happening again, the awkward silence, and she hates it. It's not them. They both start speaking simultaneously.

"I should probably—"

"I was thinking maybe—"

They both trail off, smiling a little. Rick gestures for her to go ahead, and she does. "I've got to get to work," she says. "Gates has been on the warpath."

He nods. "Yeah. Well. It was uh, it was good to see you."

Her heart sinks a little, but she pastes on a smile. "Yeah. You too."

She moves around him and heads for the precinct, but she's only two steps away when she feels his fingers close around her wrist.

"Kate, wait."

The sound of her name coming from him is its own kind of torture, because it brings her face to face with feelings that she doesn't want. Memories of all the times he whispered her name in moments she's been trying hard to forget. She closes her eyes and takes a deep breath, then turns to face him.

"Stay for a while. Have coffee with me." God, the way he's _staring_ at her. Like nothing has changed. Maybe nothing has. "I missed you."

And just like that, she's giving in. She loves him, she's always loved him, and maybe a summer away from him has proved that they're not as doomed to fail as she thought they were.

She's ready to tell him she missed him too when she hears a high pitched whine come from somewhere behind him.

"Riiicky."

In the next instant a short, lithe blonde has draped herself over Rick. Kate stares at the woman, stunned, and then looks at Rick. He's staring at her with wide eyes, but the blonde isn't done yet.

"You forgot these," she purrs, holding up a pair of handcuffs. "And after you were so adamant about getting them, too."

A painful spasm of jealousy rips through Kate's middle and she bites her lip, hating herself for thinking that he wouldn't move on, for assuming that he'd missed her like she'd missed him.

"Looks like you've already got company," she murmurs, meeting his eyes. She musters up a half smile. "I'll see you when I see you, Castle."

She walks away from him, hurt but angry, too. He calls her name, and his hand is suddenly tugging on hers again. She turns to him, rapidly losing patience. The woman is standing back by the coffee house, looking surprised. Rick has eyes only for Kate.

"It's not what you think," he starts. "She's—"

"It doesn't matter," Kate cuts him off.

He stops short at that, and Kate can't understand why he looks so hurt. _He's_ the one with the blonde. "It doesn't?" he asks.

She shakes her head, a humorless smile curving her lips. "No. And you're right; it's not what I think. Because I don't think anything. Not about you, or me, or…anything. You can handcuff whoever you want. I don't care."

She pulls her hand out of his grasp and turns away, and this time he doesn't follow her.


	9. Chapter 9

_Final chapter. I wish I had a good excuse for how late it is, but I don't, so...well, here._

* * *

><p>(If it wasn't real, it wouldn't be them)<p>

The elevator pings, the doors slide open, and Kate sighs and steps off. She spent the day pounding the pavement, following one dead-end lead after another. Around eight o'clock she gave up, went back to the precinct to check in with Gates, and then decided she'd pick it up again in the morning. The boys were halfway to the elevator before she finished telling them they were done for the day.

Kate flips through her key ring, searching for the right key. She finds it and looks up, only to stop dead in her tracks.

There's someone slumped in front of her front door. Kate takes a few cautious steps forward, her hand moving toward her gun. She's about five feet away when she realizes that the someone in front of her door is Rick, and he's asleep. She stares at him, unsure if she's actually seeing things correctly, and then a voice comes from somewhere behind her.

"Poor dear got tired waiting for you."

Kate jumps and whirls around to see Mrs. Reynolds from 731 standing in her doorway. It's only the loving stare Mrs. Reynolds has focused on Castle that saves the elderly woman from seeing Kate's gun.

"Mrs. Reynolds," Kate says, taking a deep breath to calm her racing heart. "You scared me."

"Oh, I'm sorry dear," Mrs. Reynolds says, fixing Kate with a smile. "I've been checking on him every hour."

"Every hour?" Kate repeats, glancing at Rick. "How long has he been here?"

"Oh since about four or so."

Kate glances at her dad's watch. It's nine o'clock. She looks up at Rick incredulously. "Five hours," she mutters.

Mrs. Reynolds is smiling indulgently at Rick. "I brought him out some brownies around seven. He asked if he could keep one for you." The older woman looks at Kate with her eyebrows raised. "Such a nice boy, Katie dear. Is he your boyfriend?"

There's a pang inside of her somewhere deep, and Kate shakes her head. "No. Just a friend."

"Well he's quite fond of you. We talked about you for over an hour."

Kate's saved the trouble of a long story by the appearance of an orange cat at Mrs. Reynolds' feet. "Oh, Charlie, look who's here," Mrs. Reynolds exclaims, scooping up the cat. "Katie, say hello."

Kate smiles and pats the cat on the head when Mrs. Reynolds holds him out. "Hey little man."

Charlie flicks his tail at her. "Time for bed, Charlie," Mrs. Reynolds says. "Good night, Katie dear. Take care of that young man."

"Yes ma'am."

Mrs. Reynolds' door shuts, and Kate's left alone in the hall with Rick. She stares at him for a long moment, wondering what the hell he's doing here, and then she finally steps toward him and kicks his foot.

"Castle."

He snorts and shifts but doesn't wake up. Kate kicks him again, maybe a little harder than she needs to. "Castle."

He shoots up, his eyes wide. "Didn't do it, I swear!"

Kate can't help but smile a little. Rick blinks up at her, confused. "Kate? What are you doing here?"

"You're the one sleeping in front of my door, Castle. What are _you_ doing here?"

"Oh," he mutters, glancing around. It takes a minute to sink in, and then he looks back at her. "I was waiting for you."

He gets to his feet and stretches, groaning. Kate watches him, an eyebrow arched.

"How long?" she asks, even though she already knows. She's curious to see if he'll exaggerate.

He shrugs. "Not long." He nods at Mrs. Reynolds' door. "Your neighbor brought me brownies. I saved you one." He digs it out of his pocket and holds it out to her, but it looks like a rock covered in dirt and there's a gum wrapper stuck to it. Kate crinkles her nose. "Oops," Rick mutters sheepishly, flicking the wrapper off. He holds the brownie out to Kate, and she shakes her head.

"No, thank you."

He shrugs and pops it in his mouth. He says something to her around the brownie, but she can't understand him. She gives him a look, and he swallows the brownie and grins like a five-year-old. "I'm supposed to tell you that Charlie and Mr. Muffins are waiting for you to come over and visit."

"Okay. Anything else?"

Rick knits his eyebrows in thought. "Umm...no. Not that I remember anyway."

He smiles at her, and Kate waits expectantly to hear what he's been doing waiting for her outside of her apartment for five hours. When he doesn't offer an explanation, she prods one out him.

"What are you doing here, Castle?"

He shrugs. "I'm fighting for you."

It's the last thing she expects to hear, so she just stares at him for a long moment. "You're...what?"

"Fighting for you," he repeats.

Kate still doesn't know what to say, so she just remains silent. Castle's staring at his shoes now, bouncing slightly up and down in a way that Kate refuses to acknowledge might be kind of cute. He holds out his hand, and when she looks down, she sees a pair of handcuffs. Painted red writing glints on the silver, and she looks closer. _Frozen Heat_, it reads.

"They're door prizes for the launch party," he says softly. "This morning I met one of Black Pawn's people at a coffee shop so I could approve the final design. I asked if I could borrow a pair to give to Ryan and Esposito. I accidentally left them on the table."

Kate looks up at him. He's watching her closely.

"Her name's Morgan," he continues. "She works with Hollywood people a lot, which means she's overly touchy and calls me awful pet names that make it sound like she's seen me naked. Which she hasn't, by the way."

Kate shakes her head. "You don't need to explain anything to me."

"I think I do," he contradicts.

She thinks back to the way she'd stormed off at the coffee shop. She opens her mouth to apologize, but he waves her off.

"I don't blame you. I…well, we don't have the best track record, do we?"

She nods in agreement. They definitely don't. "So is that why you're here?" she says. "To explain Morgan?"

"No. I told you. I'm fighting for you. Which is actually rather difficult, because I've never had to fight for anyone before." He shrugs. "Usually I buy women something expensive and say something charming and I'm forgiven, but you...you're not like other women."

Kate gapes at him, caught off guard and helplessly flattered. He's gazing at her intensely, his hands shoved in his pockets, and she can't make herself look away.

"I could try that, if you want," he says softly.

She swallows. "Try what?"

"I could buy you a pony. Or a new squad car." He takes a step toward her. "Or maybe I should tell you that I spent all summer pining over you. Which was really fun for like a week because I finally got to be a brooding artist, but then I started to miss you too much and it wasn't fun anymore."

He takes another step and suddenly he's right in front of her, so close that she's sure he can hear her heart thudding in her chest.

"You're not an easy person to miss, you know," he tells her.

"I'm not?" she says before she can stop herself.

"No," he reiterates, giving her a crooked smile that charms the hell out of her despite her best efforts to stop it. "Everything reminds me of you. Food. Writing. Talking. Breathing. I couldn't escape you when I was sleeping either, but I won't go into that cause it makes me sound like a creeper."

She smiles again, she can't help it, and it makes his smile wider. He just takes her in for a second, and then his smile fades.

"You know what makes missing you the worst?" he asks quietly.

She can't find her voice to ask, but it doesn't matter.

"The regret. Constantly thinking about how if I'd just cut through everything that held me back, good intentions and all, then none of this would've happened. Then I wouldn't have to live with knowing that I hurt you, or knowing that you don't trust me."

He shakes his head and looks at his feet. "Truth is, I'm kind of miserable without you. But I'm not going to push you. I'm just going to wait, if that's okay with you."

"Again?" she blurts out.

He looks up at her, surprised. She feels her face flush.

"Sorry," she mutters. "I just…" she wants to ask him if he's tired of waiting for her, but she's afraid of the answer. So she says nothing.

He gives her a soft smile, as though he can read her mind. He probably can. Damn him. "I'll bring you coffee," he continues. "And I'll be your friend, and I'll just wait until you trust me again. I'll fight for you without fighting with you. It's not how the knights do it in those stories I used to read to Alexis, but I figure you're no damsel in distress, and we've always done things our own way." He glances down at her lips than back up. "And I like that about us."

He doesn't say anything else, and for the longest time neither of them says anything at all. Kate is fairly certain that there's something in the back of her brain that's set on _buzz_. Her entire body seems to be vibrating, or maybe just trembling, or maybe the world around her is shaking and it makes her feel like she is, too; whatever it is, she knows that this, at last, is the moment when she's got to decide. In or out. Do or die. Castle or not.

He's staring at her like she's the most beautiful thing he's ever seen, and maybe she is. She feels like she is, and she knows that it has nothing to do with the way he looks at her when he wants to take her to bed. No, it's something else. Something about her fits with something about him. It's like sliding her feet into her favorite pair of running shoes. It's so familiar, so comfortable, and yet she can never be sure where he'll end up taking her.

So here she is, in a place she never thought she'd be. Or maybe she's exactly where she always knew she'd be. Maybe all along she's just been waiting for this, for him, and now he's here and she's trying to come to terms with the fact that she is literally shaking. That her heart is thumping wildly in her chest. That she wants him like she's never wanted anyone or anything, and he wants her, too.

"I miss you," she finally whispers.

A huge grin threatens his lips, but he manages to keep it in check. "You do?"

"You're not an easy person to miss either."

It's her turn to glance at his lips, and she bites her own absently. She goes still when he reaches up and slides his fingers through her hair. Then he drops his hand back down to his side. "I've been wanting to do that since earlier."

She smiles faintly. "Yeah?"

"Yeah." He reaches forward and laces his fingers through hers. "This too."

His voice is getting quieter, lower, and Kate can barely hear him over the roar of her blood pounding in her ears. "Anything else?" she wonders in a barely audible voice.

He nods. "Yeah."

He tugs on her hand, pulling her closer so that his other arm can wrap around her waist and hold her body against his. She feels herself react instantly, feels the hot lightning bolt of desire race through her. "I'm gonna kiss you now," he murmurs.

She swallows. "Okay."

And then he does, and her mind goes blank, and all she can think about is him, and his hands reacquainting themselves with her body, and the way his hair feels underneath her fingers. When he finally pulls away he leans his forehead against hers.

"Did you miss that too?"

Kate smiles against his lips. "Shut up and do it again."


End file.
